


Pardon

by bonie (spenceur)



Series: McCree but inspired by real actual western songs [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Based on a song, Blackwatch Era, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Blackwatch Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Deadlock Gang, Deadlock Jesse McCree, Epilogue, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, NOT noncon, No Sex, No Smut, but like. mentions/threats of sexual assualt, corny fucking mercy reference, i'll add tags as i go through, mccree loves jack and gabriel so much and i love him so much, sfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13968867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spenceur/pseuds/bonie
Summary: Jesse McCree had made a name for himself as a quick shot and deadly catch from California to Texas before he'd even had a run-in with the Deadlock Gang. At seventeen, he'd been given the opportunity of affiliation, and joined the gang in their ranks.Seemingly heartless, seemingly lawless, and not too good at looking out for himself, until he was forced to.The story of how a raggedy boy from the American West becomes a feared terrorist, and a feared terrorist joins the very forces trying to take him down.





	1. Young Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When I was but a young man I was wild and full of fire  
> A youth within my teens, but full of challenge and desire  
> I ran away from home and left my mother and my dad  
> I know it grieved them so to think their only boy was bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the chapter w/ implied threats of sexual assault it's not graphic but still

"Those things'll make you sick, you know."

He was referring, of course, to the cigar the quiet form had been haphazardly smoking as the train rumbled through the Mojave midnight. The young man looked up at the stranger standing in front of him, vision only partially impaired by the light shining behind the figure's head, a halo of white that blinded the younger.

"Ain't worried about gettin' sick," he mumbled, tilting his head back and closing his eyes back.

"Nah, I'm sure a young man like you wouldn't have to worry too much about that yet," the stranger responded, not taking the hint. "You mind if I sit? An old man could use some company." When the young man replied only with a "hmph" and a half-shrug, the man made a show of removing his hat and gloves and running his hand through his white hair before sitting in the seat across from him.

"I guess you're not one much for talkin'. Can't say I blame you. Talkin' around these parts can get a man in a right bit of trouble. Especially with some of the women-types down there, eh?"

The old man's attempts at conversation went mostly unnoticed, or if they were noticed, they didn't elicit a response.

"Name's Alred. Billy Alred."

The younger man shifted the cigar between his lips. "McCree," he gave. "Name's McCree."

Billy smiled at the actual response, the lines around his eyes crinkling as he did so. He measured the kid next to him, taking his time as he did so. He couldn't have been more than seventeen, if that, and if he cared, he might ask himself what such a young'n was doing riding the train to Santa Fe alone.

He didn't much care, though, and the sight of it all got him chuckling a bit.

"Somethin' funny?" McCree asked, not even opening his eyes.

"Nah, not exactly," Billy replied. He made a quick move and was standing over the boy before he went on. "Just thinkin' about how nice I must've been lately to get such a fine specimen on my tracks, all alone."

Jesse McCree, ever cool, finally reopened his eyes to face down the barrel of a gun, and the almost shy grin of someone about to make a stupid mistake.

"Now, why don't you just get up all nice like, and we can see about how you plan to pay for a safe exit from my tracks, eh, pretty boy?"

McCree took his time lowering his legs from the table in front of him, but rather than get to his knees like the old man had obviously wanted to, he stood flat on his feet, the soft jingle of spurs giving a fitting punctuation to his defiance.

"Now, sir, I reckon you get a lot of visitors down this line, and I'm sure plenty of them were easily persuaded to see things your way, but I ain't one for standing down, and I certainly ain't one for losing a fight, so why don't you put that away and we can sit back down like gentlemen."

Billy laughed, though there was a glint in the kid's eye that made him nervous. Instincts be damned, though, he kept his gun pointed at the kid's head. He'd been in plenty of scenarios that started or ended with a gun to someone's head, even being at the receiving end of one himself a few times, but he knew for a fact he wasn't going to be overpowered by some cocky kid he could probably snap in half if he grabbed too hard.

That's what he told himself, at least, even when he saw the kid shuffle. Even when he heard the loud bang that certainly didn't come from his own hand. Even when he looked down, and saw the scarlet stain spread across his nice, clean shirt. He didn't fully process that he'd been shot, the boy'd moved so quick, until he stumbled backwards, hitting his head on the table he'd been sitting at only minutes previously on his way down, biting down hard on his tongue and tasting the blood that flowed so freely from his chest.

McCree stared down at the dying man, and the dying man looked back up at McCree, blood spilling from his lips and from his heart as he sputtered in pain and disbelief. McCree looked around the cabin, though no one else was on the train at all, at this point, and took in the scene -- not out of fear, or enjoyment, or even satisfaction, but out of affirmation - and then looked back down at the man whose life drained out of his face.

"I told you, didn't I?" he said, not quite monotone. "I ain't one for losing a fight." He kicked his toe at the other man's shins with disinterest. His eyes were pulled to the Stetson, still carefully set on the table, mostly untouched by blood. He took it in his hand, his left hand, the hand that didn't hold his Peacekeeper, and put it on his head.

And then, as though nothing had happened, he sat back down and pulled the hat over his eyes, finally able to get some quiet rest.

Jesse McCree, ever cool, didn't tend to think about home often, but tonight, just tonight, he wondered if his mama felt him kill that man, and wondered if she could forgive him for doing so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't write fanfic a lot


	2. Outlaw Band

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I fell in with an outlaw band, their names were known quite well  
> How many times we robbed and plundered, I could never tell  
> This kind of sinful living leads only to a fall  
> I learned that much and more the night I heard my Master call.

Santa Fe hadn't been kind to Jesse McCree. Not that he'd admit it to anyone, especially not himself.

Nobody noticed him at first, and no one had known he'd killed the man on the train. Hell, no one even knew he was dead until the train hit the Colorado border, and McCree had gotten off just a few miles outside of Santa Fe. If anyone had wanted to find him in the first place, it wouldn't have been worth the trouble.

Still, at least he'd gotten to where he'd meant to be, this time.

He walked those few miles into Santa Fe, his feet carrying him in the direction of the city lights he could no longer see now that he was no longer on the train. Eventually, slowly, they came back into view, just as the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon.

It was a beautiful sight -- it always was, and McCree took extra time to appreciate it before he made his way to the outskirts of the city, and to the first dingy motel he could find, a mile from the city proper. He'd been on that damn train for so long and still hadn't slept a wink, and by the way the woman at the desk reacted to him, he probably needed a shower.

It would be good to feel human again.

Almost human.

But shower he did, and sleep he did. He slept through most of the day, though it was a half-sleep. The kind he needed to be alert in case he needed to draw his gun quickly and shoot, no questions asked. By the time he did wake up, he could already see the orange-red glow of sunset through the tattered curtains of his rented room. He lie in bed a while longer, one arm behind his head, staring blankly at the ceiling, until an ache in his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten in some time now, and it was probably a good idea for him to do so.

Slowly, methodically, he got up, washed his face like he'd been taught to, got dressed. He gave himself a quick look in the mirror before he turned to grab his Peacekeeper and settle it in his holster.

Right where it belongs.

He'd spent the first few weeks in Santa Fe like that; he'd sleep through the day, eat his meal of the day, and head out, no real place in mind as he wandered. First, the dirty outskirts, where people who kept to themselves stayed, and then into the city proper.

He'd spent his first few weeks like that, before he managed to find himself in a bit of trouble. He’d heard of the trouble, sure. Heard tell of a gang that moved in the night and only terrorized civilians to cover up something heavier. Terrorized them to keep them quiet.

But Jesse McCree could find trouble, and if he couldn’t, trouble could find him.

His routine hadn't changed, just his paths, and the one he'd decided to take tonight led him smack-dab in the middle of a robbery. He'd been staying at the same . . . cozy motel he'd stayed in the first night, and only ever saw the same woman and who he presumed to be her wife at the counter. Tonight, they were both behind the counter, hands up and crying, as a few scrawny men with their faces hidden stood around them, guns held high, screaming profanities not even McCree could make out. He definitely didn't think the women could make it out, over their own cries.

He watched, quietly, as the first woman who had greeted him fumbled around the counter with shaky hands, presumably to open a safe or lockbox of some sort for these men, still screaming.

The other woman noticed him, pleading silently. He held his finger to his lips and gave her a nod. His eyes led her to his other hand, where he had reached for his Peacekeeper moments earlier.

She wasn't sure what she expected from him. Maybe to surprise them and just start shooting. Maybe he'd get a shot off before the other two men turned and shot him down. She didn't know what to expect from the silent stranger she saw only as he left each night, but she certainly didn't expect what she got.

"That ain't a nice way to treat a couple of nice ladies, ain't it, men?"

They turned to face the owner of the voice, the owner they hadn't seen walk in. Hadn't even heard, until now. Their guns didn't waver from their positions, save for one of the men, who pointed it at Jesse, looking furious.

"The fuck you think you can do about it, kid? I think maybe you should leave us to our business, and maybe we'll leave you to yours."

Another chimed it. "Yeah, you're outnumbered three to one. Why don't you put your hands up and go to your room, like a nice kiddo."

McCree didn't take much to being called a kid.

Rapid fire, he shot the first two men down, the men still pointing their guns at the motel owners. The third hadn't even seen him move until his brothers were on the ground, lifeless eyes staring towards a heaven they'd never see. Of course, they weren't his brothers by blood, but they were his brothers, all the same.

McCree spoke again, still calm, still collected.

"Now, I can let you join your friends here on the ground, or you can leave, and you can be sure not to come back with anything less than an apology for these ladies here you've gone and scared up."

He watched the robber as his hand, his firing hand, trembled, and lowered slightly. He switched his gaze between his fallen brothers and the man who'd killed them a few times, before he hardened his gaze at the killer. He spit once, then turned and ran, as though he half expected McCree to take back his word and shoot him from behind.

Jesse McCree, ever cool, looked at the women, their cries frozen in shock, and then back down at the men he'd killed.

"I reckon you're gonna need help cleaning this up."

So that's what he did. With an almost expert hand, he wrapped the dead bandits in the rug they'd died on, and carried them out to the desert wilderness, a few miles from town. He'd only meant to return to the hotel to retrieve the clothes he thought it best to leave behind as he did his chore, but he returned to to grateful women and a warm meal.

"We don't know what we'd do without you," one of them said, on the verge of tears yet again.

"They've been here three times already," the other rushed. Neither of them could keep their eyes off McCree, or their hands off each other.

"Please," they said, together this time. "Stay as long as you like. We couldn't possibly repay you any other way."

And Jesse stayed, at least until he knew where he'd be going next. He stayed three more days in that motel, until one morning, dragging his feet back to the room he'd grown accustomed to, he was pulled into an alley and held back by his arms, his legs kicked out from under him. Another man's arm around his neck, McCree was forced to look up into the face of the bandit he didn't kill before, who stood behind another man, face hidden by darkness and a cloud of smoke.

"So this is the kid who took out two of my men, and left another pissin' his pants? You don't seem too rough 'n' tough to me." His fist landed a blow to McCree's jaw, and he tasted that all-too-familiar taste of iron.

He spit, the thick red staining the ground inches from the assailant's boots, and managed to croak out "Why don't you have your goons let me go, and I'll show you just how tough I ain't."

The smoke cleared as the man laughed. "I said you don't look it. I never said you can't be it. I ain't as stupid as my men look."

McCree heard the man more than he saw him, the sound of boots hitting the dusty, hard ground as he walked around the scene letting McCree know exactly how much trouble he was in, and how much more he could be in, if he wanted him to be.

"'Round these parts, they call me King, kid. You know how I got that name?" He paused, but only barely, obviously not looking for an answer. "I keep my men safe, I keep my city under control, and I don't let strangers walk around like they own the place."

His boot kicked out, hitting McCree in the thigh, and McCree dropped into the arm wrapped around his neck before he could get himself on his knees again.

"See, you killed two of my men. Two of my best men, matter of fact, and Johnny here didn't even see you do it. That leaves us both in quite the predicament. Johnny here thinks I should take you out back and shootcha like a dog, where all my mournin' boys can see."

Ah. That was his name. Didn't much matter to McCree, but at least he had things to call people.

Johnny gave McCree a death glare, his chin tilted upwards. McCree could make out the vague shapes of bruises along the man's jaw and neck.

"On the other hand," the King started again, drawing Jesse's attention back to him, "you killed two of my men, and Johnny didn't see you do it. You must be mighty quick to get two shots through the brains of my men without Johnny here knowin' you did it 'til they were dead on the ground." The King pulled McCree's head back even farther by his hair, grey eyes peering thoughtfully into Jesse's darker ones.

Something about that kids eyes made even the King a bit nervous.

He chuckled.

"Yeah, you must be a mighty quick shot indeed. Let him up, boys."

Hesitantly, the two men holding McCree let their grasp relax, though McCree didn't get up until the King pulled him up, hands still tangled in his hair.

The King lowered his lips to the young man's ears, whispering to him, like he was gifting him with a great secret.

"I'll tell you what. You kill those two behind you as quick as you killed my other two, and you can come stay with the King and his boys in the castle. I'm sure we could make quick work of you and that eye you got."

He pulled away, and let go of McCree's hair, giving a light slap to his cheek.

"If not, I can always let Johnny here finish you off."

Jesse McCree didn't need to be told twice, and before the King hand even taken a step back, he'd turned around and shot the two men behind him square between the eyes in one swift movement.

Johnny made a choked sound at scrambled for his own gun before the King held his hand up to stop him.

“Quick like lightning, kid. Calm as a storm. But I bet you’ve got the rage of a tornado hidden in that head of yours.”

Jesse McCree, ever cool, didn’t respond, choosing instead to pick up the Stetson that had fallen to the ground when he’d been ambushed.

“Welcome to the Deadlock Gang, kid. What do I call you?” He held out his cigarette, a lowly form of camaraderie, and Jesse took it between his lips, breathing in deep.

He wondered if his mama knew what he’d done this time.

“Name’s McCree."


	3. Projects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One night we rustled cattle, a thousand head or so  
> And started them out on the trail that leads to Mexico  
> But a norther started blowing and lightning flashed about  
> I thought someone was calling me, I thought I heard a shout.

At seventeen, McCree had joined ranks with the same gang he’d protected two women from days earlier. At seventeen, Jesse McCree had quickly made a name for himself along Route 66, moving weapons and robbing trains.

By the time his twentieth birthday came around, he was the King’s new favorite, and held the respect of his new brothers, regardless of how much distaste they might’ve held for him.

He spent his days drinking, sleeping, and flirting with the men and women passing through the Castle for the King’s enjoyment. He spent his nights planning heists with the King, or carrying them out with the King’s men. Be it petty crime or blowing up a train, McCree followed the orders of the King like a dutiful puppy, hesitance long since beaten out of him.

Sometimes, though, sometimes he’d hear whispers. Whispers that Overwatch, the name fighting wars in every country and saving civilians that didn’t usually include bandits in the deserts of North America, had a team looking to take the King down. He'd been hearing whispers that the Deadlock Gang’s newer recruits, more vulnerable veterans, and higher-ups were getting pried for information for some time now, and folks were changing allegiances. Nobody trusted anybody anymore, least of all McCree.

But the King trusted _McCree_ , trusted his shot. McCree stopped going out with the rest of the gang on the high-stakes heists and moves, and started staying in the Castle, where he kept the King’s anxieties at bay.

Occasionally, when the King had had too much to drink, he’d pepper his favorite with affection he didn’t know he was capable of. Kid was so reserved, it took so much to get a real response from him, but, by God could the kid follow orders.

McCree would walk the streets of Santa Fe, sometimes, just listening to whispers. He heard plenty he didn’t like. He put plenty others to rest with a quick hit and the barrel of a gun to the face.

But he couldn’t stop people from whispering, and he wasn’t sure it mattered, anyway.

Sometimes he heard whispers in the dark of things needing to be moved, things unclaimed or stolen by the wrong kind of people. The whispers he’d bring back to the Deadlock Gang that kept his favor among the King. That’s how a kid as young as him survived. Keeps himself valuable, untouchable. He’d bring his whispers directly to the King, who’d meet him with a proud, greedy smile and a cheer. They’d plan, along with a few other trusted higher-ups, retrievals of these objects. A business that used to deal in arms branching out to expensive items and stolen gear.

Now, McCree sat in the back of a dusty bar he didn’t like to frequent, cigar in his mouth, coins twirling between his fingers, ears open. The King had been frustrated lately. Business, for all it’s wealth, had been dwindling since the Overwatch rumors began, but it had gotten especially worse the last few weeks, and the King had been taking it out on everyone. All through the night, he'd throw things and scream as McCree could only sit, smoke, and stare. Eight of his brothers had been brought down and shot for supposed _collusion_ with Overwatch already, and the King needed something to keep his anger caged.

Two men behind him, from context McCree gathered a corrupt cop and some kind of thief who hadn’t had the unfortunate fate of meeting with Deadlock yet, had been having a poorly-disguised conversation about something being moved in a few days time. It piqued his interest.

He took a puff of his cigar and turned his head ever so slightly so as to hear better, catching sight of three men entering the bar, their gazes sweeping over the patrons before McCree’s attention refocused to the cop’s words.

Something needed moving, which meant something for Deadlock to steal.

The stool next to him was pulled back. McCree looked out the corner of his eye to see the darker man from earlier settling himself on it.

“You mind?” It didn’t matter if Jesse minded. He was already sitting down, waving for the bartender, and two drinks were brought, one slid the few inches between the man and McCree, an obvious offer.

Jesse ignored it, electing instead to take a long drag of his cigar; the smoke he released giving off a thick aroma.

“Those things’ll get you sick, you know.” McCree didn’t answer, just gave a huff and blew a little more smoke. It didn’t take a cigar to make Jesse McCree a sick man.

Not that he should have  _had_ to be a man, at his young age. Barely an adult, and McCree had seen the things men do, things most people never had the unfortunate pleasure of witnessing so close.

“What, you don’t talk? That’s a bit rude, is it not?” McCree’s stranger pulled him out of his short period of musing, and while he’d originally planning on brushing this man off until he gave up and found something else to do, something about his quirked eyebrows and taunting voice pulled a response from him.

“Ain’t your mama ever taught you not to talk to strangers?” McCree retorted. His short quip drew a smile from the other man.

“Guess she did, once upon a time. I’ve never been one to listen much, though.”

A voice called from the other end of the bar. One of the men that had come in with McCree’s stranger, a large blonde man with hands cupped around his mouth as though it was necessary, yelled to his partner. “Hey, Reyes, we’re workin’, not flirtin’!”

The stranger -- Reyes, McCree acknowledged -- gave but another smile and looked directly into McCree’s eyes, almost crying out for trouble.

McCree didn’t look for the trouble, but it found him.

Apparently, the cop behind them recognized something in this mysterious stranger that McCree hadn’t, and thought it a good idea to stumble upwards, a gun to the stranger’s head. On any other day, either men would have seen him planning this from a mile away. Hell, maybe this _Reyes_ had. McCree would never know.

“Reyes, Overwatch’s own _Gabriel_ Reyes,” he slurred. “I know a man or two who’d pay a pretty penny for your head.” He didn’t seem to notice that his thief friend had seen the trouble brewing, and had started sneaking out the back door. Reyes’ own partners were alerted that something was wrong through context clues as the entire attitude of the bar shifted, all eyes focusing on the exchange. Still, no eyes were on McCree, which is how he prefered to live.

Most people didn’t have a habit of carrying a gun around this place, usually too smart to make such a stupid move around these parts, but McCree wasn’t one of them. He wasn’t nearly smart enough to avoid trouble.

_Overwatch_ , he pondered, _in Deadlock territory? Not a coincidence._

He questioned whether or not he should rescue this Gabriel Reyes, or let the corrupt police force of Santa Fe help squash a bug in Deadlock business.

His project was running out the back door, though, so McCree needed to decide fast.

And fast he was. Within seconds, the cop was on the ground, gun clattering to the floor a few feet away from his outstretched arm. McCree’s knee pressing down hard on his chest. Ribs were definitely cracked, if McCree’s ears were to be trusted.

They usually were.

His Peacekeeper was out of its holster in half a second, barrel nearly stabbing the poor sap under McCree in the throat. There was a small protest from men in the back of the bar. McCree paid them no mind as he searched his next victim’s eyes for something, anything to spare him.

Another half a second, and there was blood on McCree’s face, his right arm, his Peacekeeper. Another half a second, and another man was dead, though Jesse’d long stopped asking for his mother’s forgiveness. He turned back to the bar, to the man who, without a second though, had killed for.

To the drink he’d left previously untouched.

He knocked it back in a second, the back of his bloodied hand wiping away any excess, and nodded to Gabriel Reyes.

Another second, and McCree was out the door, with half a dozen other patrons staring in disbelief at the body lying on the cold floor.

Not Gabriel, though. He could only stare at the door the cowboy had exited out of, lips twitching upwards. One might have believed him to be impressed.

Not that McCree saw this. He was long gone. He’d managed to find the thief up the block, occasionally looking back, as though the big bad wolf was coming for him.

Not a wolf, no, but certainly the big bad.

McCree caught him just as he turned a corner, bloody Peacekeeper aimed at his forehead, cigar being stamped out on the sidewalk.

“Now why don’t you come quietly, and we’ll talk about a little project you’re gonna help me with.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a third of the way done nice


	4. Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then at that moment lightning struck not twenty yards from me  
> And left there was a giant cross where once there was a tree  
> And this time I knew I heard a voice, a voice so sweet and strange  
> A voice that came from everywhere, a voice that called my name.

It had taken every minute between dragging McCree’s project home and the moment the Deadlock boys actually made their move to plan this newest heist. The King flushed with pride when McCree dragged his thief to the Castle, the scrawny man trying so hard not to blubber and break in front of the famed leader of the Deadlock Gang, though one look into the King’s eyes and a boot to the shin from McCree himself soon broke his resolve, and he started telling every detail he could just to spare his own life.

It didn’t work. McCree’s boot wasn’t satisfied with only a leg, and that very same shoe came down upon the thief’s head -- once, twice, a third time -- until his nose sat at un unnatural angle and teeth fell back in his throat and McCree could swear he saw brain in that mess of skull fragments and blood on the floor.

The King gave him that certain smile he saved only for his McCree, eyes wild with a fire that could burn a hundred men.

It was a look McCree had learned to emulate, and return, which only encouraged the old man’s affections more.

For three nights and two days, McCree and the King up in the Castle planned their escapade, and excitement rose amongst the ranks of overeager Deadlock men. _This is the big one_ , they said. _No man left hungry, after this._

They were right, in a way.

For three nights and two days, McCree and the King shared cocky smiles over dimly lit maps and blueprints spread out over dented and chipped wooden tables, blood pulsating from the adrenaline of the hunt.

Sleep in the hours before was deep from a lack of it since the project's inception, though restless from excitement in anticipation of what was to come. Slowly, as Deadlock members began to wake in the early hours of the afternoon, men launched themselves into action. Weapons cleaned, tools packed, newer members taunted as the promise of a _real_ adventure hung in the air.

It required all of the few dozen Deadlock men to pull this off. A train was moving through with precious cargo, people and items alike, and it was the King’s mission to pull as much as he could from this train in terms of profit. Teams of six or eight, with a makeup of one or two men with a set skill and a few grunts, would take over one car each, gather who and what they could, and leave the rest stranded. Orders were to kill anyone who got in the way, no more, and if they were worth an especially hefty amount, take them out by non-lethal methods and extract.

It was the most complex plan McCree had been a part of since his years-long tenure in the Deadlock Gang, and he'd been in more than his fair share of scrapes, leading to more than a few notches on his belt in his endeavors.

He wondered how many more he'd have to make after this one, though he'd forgotten who he was making them for some time ago.

In retrospect, someone smarter than him should have wondered why such a profitable opportunity landed in his lap as though he was a john in that special side of town his fellow brothers loved to frequent so much. Maybe someone had. McCree’d never know for sure.

But hindsight is 20/20, and not even Jesse’s eye was _that_ good.

The cavalry was geared up to go by sundown, and groups made their way to the rendezvous point -- some quietly, restlessly, others loudly, and with more vigor. The front groups were equipped with target electromagnetic transmitters, to pull the train to a stop. Then, the others would pile into cars, take what was to be taken, and specialized gear they'd swiped a few months earlier would allow for large sections of the sides or bottom of a coach to be cut out, allowing for easy access to the ground, where the men would march their stolen goods to a waiting, inconspicuous transport vehicles some meters away.

Two, three hours. Tops. That included travel time either direction.

After all, a robbery that lasts too long is a robbery that begs to be interrupted.

McCree and the King himself would be waiting until the first waves of men disrupted the train enough for the two of them to slip into the very last cargo hold. It could hold several tons of weight, if needed to, and had an impressive square meter measurement, but there would be only one thing in that particular car.

Everything set into place as the train roared past. Farther ahead, the lights from the EMP transmitters signaled the first step.

The first success.

The King crouched, restless behind the boulder that sheltered he and Jesse both comfortably as they waited for the telltale sign that it was their turn to move in. Each group moved uniformly, skillfully scaling the side of each car, men dropping down into the cars, and a split second of silence as passengers gauged the situation before a few of the quick-to-react ones started screaming. McCree waited patiently until he was sure it was time to move in before flashing his telltale cocky grin to the King, and they moved.

That's when things fell apart.

It seemed as soon as the King’s heavy boots thudded behind him McCree heard one of the boys on the Comms screaming about men down. And then another, and another, and another.

Jesse McCree, the quickest shot this side of the Mississippi, bolted through the door at the front of the coach in which he currently stood, leaping the foot or so to the door of the next one, the King following close behind.

Six bodies were on the floor. It didn't take Jesse but a second to recognize each one as one of his own men. Save for one who'd taken to wearing a bullet between his brows, McCree couldn't tell if they were alive or dead.

He didn't wait to find out.

Men were shouting about “threats neutralized” into a Comms system of their own, barely having time to register McCree as a newcomer before his Peacekeeper was out and firing, McCree firing shot after shot into the abdomen of black-clad men and women. They were probably wearing bulletproof armor of some kind, but McCree didn't have the time to be picky about putting bullets in brains.

Eight soldiers were down, that's what mattered.

He'd fought and shot his way through two more coaches before he ran out of ammunition, a situation he wasn't used to being in, and it sure as hell made him uncomfortable.

Even so, he managed to down three more soldiers with the butt of his gun and the iron of his fists. Deadlock hadn't been kind to him -- he’d had fought with just about every single one of those men just to stop getting called ‘kid’ every time he was addressed -- but they had taught him loyalty. The only thought on his mind as he dodged bullets and fists and landed his own was to keep as many of his brothers alive as he could. The King's back pressed against his, they fought hard for their own.

And then, as if by magic, time was suspended.

Halfway through the train, having worked their way to a fourth car, everyone in McCree's immediate line of sight froze. He could hear the sound of men screaming, sirens wailing around them, sure, but right now, right in front of him, all was silent.

McCree had ducked low to avoid a particularly strong-looking punch, turning to face upwards as he’d planned to reciprocate with a kick to the crotch.

Just as he went to move, there was an explosion.

No, not an explosion, just a solitary shot, but to Jesse McCree, ever call, ever collected, it sounded like a bomb.

It wasn't an explosion, just the single blast of a shotgun, and the King fell to his knees, and fell again to his chest.

Just one shot, and the King lay dead.

Jesse McCree stared where only moments ago the King had stood, fighting as hard as his Prince to defend his men.

Nobody moved, not even the quickest shot this side of the Mississippi. He _couldn't_ move.

A first for everything.

A strong jaw commanded attention. Broad shoulders demanded respect. Cold eyes denied negotiation.

Gabriel Reyes had killed the King, and then he cuffed Jesse McCree himself.


	5. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So frightened I was thinking of sinful deeds I'd done  
> I failed to see the thousand head of cattle start to run  
> The cattle they stampeded, were running all around  
> My pony ran but stumbled and it threw me to the ground.

As soon as Jesse felt the cold metal on his wrists, he felt  that ache in the back of his head he knew only too well meant they’d decided to keep a gun on him, just in case.

Even bleary-eyed, shell-shocked, utterly fuckin’ frazzled, Jesse McCree was all too aware of what was happening around him.

But on the other hand, he had no idea what the fuck had happened.

The group that had been sent to get this coach were pulled from the wreckage of battle, and sorted into alive, unconscious, or dead. McCree only half-saw the growing number of bodies being lowered to the ground until bags could be fetched. Only half-heard the pained screams of men being cuffed and thrown into prison transport vehicles. Only half-felt the blood trickling down his face, his arms. He knew most of it wasn’t his, but a particularly nasty bite in his side told him he hadn’t dodged _every_ bullet.

He should have been moved onto a bus with the rest of his brothers -- the ones that were still kicking, at least. He knew this. The fact that he hadn’t been was a source of great confusion for him, and it was only that confusion that could truly push past the shock of seeing the bearded man dead in front of him, that glassy-eyed look that was so familiar to him staring at him through eyes that had previously been aflame with lust for blood, for power.

He should have been dead, actually. That was his next thought. Had he moved a second slower, that shotgun blast would have painted the car with his blood.

But maybe it hadn’t been meant for him in the first place.

McCree was too jarred to follow one train of thought at once.

He felt, more than heard, the shuffle behind him, as the man with the gun to his head turned to sit in a booth, the barrel never lifting from the base of his skull, and for some reason, that’s what snapped him out of it. He hadn’t made any thought to escape since the second the King fell, and he felt stupid for it. There wasn’t a lot he could do for the men already being moved, but regardless of why he himself was not with them didn’t mean he shouldn’t be planning his swift, and possibly bloody, exit.

He began to take inventory of the car around him, which was slowly being pulled to pieces by the folks he’d spent a lot of ammo and energy putting to the ground.

A deep voice, one vaguely familiar to McCree as the soldier from the bar, spoke as soon as his head so much as shifted.

“You move, and I’ll pull this trigger so fast it’ll rattle your mama’s bones,” it said. McCree held no disbeliefs, no doubts, that he’d do exactly that.

A soldier stood outside the coach, spine stiff and hand held to a salute.

“Sir, we’re just about to move the last of them and get to tearing down the point. Would you like me to move this one?” He was referring, of course, to McCree, who was starting to feel the strain in his knees and the trembling in his arms from being kept in his current position on the floor.

“No, Brown, I’ve got it. Thanks for the update. Get the load moved out.” When the soldier had disappeared once more, he gave a short laugh. Speaking low, his gravelly voice was meant only for McCree. “You’re a bit too good to put you in there with the rest. Suppose I’ll just take you in myself. After all, I did see you drop and pop a cop in half a minute. You’ve got a different set of rules hanging over your head now, and I figure Jack Morrison’d like to see the kid who put a dozen of our men out of commission in one night.”

“I reckon your Jack Morrison is too easily impressed, then. You ain’t seen an ounce of what I’ve done and what can do.”

To this, Reyes seemed to have no verbal response, just pressed the barrel of his gun a little harder against McCree, his second warning.

It felt simultaneously as though hours and only seconds passed before another soldier arrived, and Reyes hauled McCree up by his elbow. He struggled to stay on his feet as blood he lacked attempted to circulated back into his calves. The new arrival held his weapon pointed steadfastly at McCree’s head.

“I guess I _must_ be somethin’ to get such a special escort,” McCree quipped. Something about staying cocky kept him grounded to the situation.

His head was turned forcefully to the right by gloved hands. Bodies, a dozen or so, had been laid out over the duration of the mission. Most of them McCree could claim as his own brothers. A few were not.

“See that, kid? Fifteen people died tonight. You’re lucky more of them weren’t mine, or I’d have killed you just as quick as I killed your _papi_. Don’t get smart with me _now_. Not if you want to live through the night.”

They stood only a moment longer before McCree was pushed forward again, significantly less confident now.

Fifteen dead.

Fifteen were dead, and it didn’t matter if it was McCree’s bullets in them or not, because fifteen more heads were on his hands now.


	6. Forgiveness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt the end was near, that death would be the price  
> When a mighty bolt of lightning showed the face of Jesus Christ  
> And I cried oh Lord forgive me, don't let it happen now  
> I want to live for you alone, Oh God these words I vow.

The fifty Deadlock men were transported to the nearest Overwatch facility capable of holding so many ruffians. McCree and his personal escort arrived after all the other groups, as Blackwatch Commander Gabriel Reyes was adamant he stayed to overlook the tearing down of the mock train and transportation of all materials, prisoners, and soldiers. McCree could respect that. It was important for a man to stand by his team. His wound hadn’t been tended to, though he could feel the buzz of a biotic emitter nearby, and his blood loss slowed to a stop, though it didn’t help the pain or the fact that the bullet was still lodged in his side.

What should have taken two hours was slowly closing in on it’s fifth before McCree was steered to one of the last remaining unmarked transport vehicles. The hulking metal machine felt more and more like a tomb the closer he was pushed towards it.

There would be no tomb for Jesse McCree, even if he _was_ to die tonight.

No, he knew he’d end up a pile of ashes, with no one to claim them. For the first time in a long time, he thought of his mother. Oh, if she could only see him now.

He was lost in thought the entire journey to the Overwatch building, hidden in the mountains and cliffs of the New Mexico horizon. If he’d been looking, he might have seen the quizzical look the Blackwatch commander occasionally directed his way.

He’d barely noticed he was back on his feet before he was urged through double, triple-locked doors, though his wince was visible. The pain from the gunshot seemed to buzz from the source, radiating in his teeth and making him want to tear them out to relieve the pressure.

Overwatch had been on every channel on every television in the world recently, and McCree still didn’t know what to expect as he was escorted through metallic hallways, now accompanied by _three_ soldiers in addition to Reyes.

Makes a man wonder just how the world sees him, sees his history.

The prison wing of this particular Overwatch location didn’t have the room to fit _every_ Deadlock member within its confines, though no other facility could even really come close. That was just the nature of what Overwatch _did_. Some of the men worse for wear weren’t even in cells, but cuffed to the benches and chairs nailed to the floor. Surely, there was a guarded infirmary with a few more, but the sight still made McCree just a shade paler.

McCree was led through the entire floor, past every single one of the men he’d been living his life with over the last few years, each one hollering and whooping as they passed.

“How many didja take out before they nabbed ya, McCree?” one bellowed. He felt the gun in his back dig deep into the grooves of his spine, and an ache in his gut he couldn’t credit his wound for.

He was forced into a smaller cell at the back of the floor and pushed rather roughly to the ground. The dull ache in his abdomen grew deeper, and more consuming. The door was locked behind him, and he looked up to the towering Reyes, doing what he could to hide any emotion whatsoever.

Gabriel Reyes knew the game, too, and with a small, yet audible, “humph,” he turned his back to McCree and left.

It was then that McCree realized he’d been set aside in his own cell, cramped alone between three brick walls and a barred door that couldn’t be more than five feet either direction. It was completely barren, leaving no possibilities for a weapon or escape.

McCree lied back on the floor, trying to coax the pain in his side to go to rest.

Instead, it was he that fell asleep, though it was by no means restful. Men cried and hollered without letting up for a second, and McCree could feel blood and a concerning heat through his torn shirt once more. Any movement he made seemed to only tear open his insides as the bullet still not yet removed shifted within him.

He lie there for what felt like days, though couldn’t have been more than a few hours, half asleep, internally debating whether or not it was worth the pain and torture of taking the damn thing out himself and risk bleeding out on the floor. 

 _It doesn't matter much_ , he’d think every once in a while. _They’re gonna kill me themselves eventually_. This was the thought process that typically ended up winning his internal debates, but damn if he didn’t feel like he’d prefer a bullet to the head every time he felt his skin splitting open from the inside out. He felt like his gums were on fire and someone had carved a huge hole in his side.

There was a wave of yells, louder and more vigorous than only moments earlier, and the loud _crack_ of something hard hitting barred doors could be heard.

Two shadows loomed over Jesse’s face, managing to only mostly snap him out of his pain-induced dazed state of mind. Reyes and another man stood outside his cell, staring down at him and exchanging words he could only half-hear, and even then he didn’t process much. He caught snippets of conversation about  _Deadlock_ and  _too quick 'a shot_. He stared back up at them through glossy eyes and tried to get himself propped up on his elbows, failing miserably.

The blond turned to Reyes, an anger ignited in his demeanor from the spark McCree had seen in their body language. Reyes looked like he’d hit the man if he could, his jaw taut. Now that the rest of the men cooped up in the prison ward had calmed some, McCree was starting to piece together more of their conversation.

He closed his eyes, hands doing what they could to relieve some of his pain without touching his wound.

“He needs medical attention, Reyes, regardless of what he’s done. If he dies in Overwatch custody and word gets out that a kid, a _kid_ , Gabe, didn’t receive any medical attention whatsoever, we’ll have a PR disaster on our hands, and you know as well as I do that that means _my_ hands. I’ll send Angela down here myself if I have to.”

“The fact that he’s in _Overwatch_ custody is the problem in the first place, Jack. You’re being stubborn.”

“You’re being cruel.”

McCree was sure more was said after that, but a fresh wave of pain washed over him and it took all his strength to not turn over and puke, though he could feel himself gagging on the sensation. Jesse McCree had been shot three times before, but nothing he’d ever experienced could compare to the pain he felt now.

The blond said something else Jesse couldn’t distinguish from the persistent noise surrounding him, and he was done talking by the time his arched back fell flat against the floor once again, his breathing heavy.

His eyes closed again, and he heard rushed footsteps and a beep, then hinges screaming.

Cold fingers pulled his wrists from where they sat and Jesse heard a woman’s voice call for someone to ‘hold him still’ before his torn shirt was ripped and his side was prodded and poked at. A thumb brushed over the initial point of entry, and Jesse hissed in pain his eyes opening again involuntarily.

Firm blue eyes stared into his and he hadn’t even realized his lips were moving until he heard himself begging to die, begging to live, begging to be put out of his misery, begging to be saved.

Begging for mercy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof that's so corny ha ha *forgive* me 
> 
> ha ha no pun intended


	7. Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My wicked past unfolded, I thought of wasted years  
> When another bolt of lightning killed a hundred head of steers  
> And the others rushed on by me and I was left to live  
> The Master had a reason, life is his to take or give.

Jesse awoke to see bright fluorescents over his head, and his attempt to shield his eyes made him acutely aware of the restraints on his wrists, and a quick kick told him his ankles were similarly bound.

“Patient Jesse McCree is now awake,” he heard. Moments later the clicking of heels on the bleached white tile approached the flimsy panel separating McCree from the rest of the room. It slid open, and a blonde woman in a lab coat stepped in, eyes glued so firmly to a clipboard it made McCree guilty.

“Good evening,” she said softly. “I’m Dr. Ziegler. I’ve been treating you the last few days.”

Days. Plural.

Yikes.

Dr. Ziegler pointed to his side with the pen she'd been holding. “You’ve suffered a great deal of internal trauma. Somebody shot you with a particularly nasty kind of bullet. It poisoned you from the inside out. You should have been brought to me earlier. Another ten minutes and your heart would have exploded. Your body is still fighting it, and we’re trying to analyze the base materials to better flush it out of the tissue. You’ll be incapacitated for another day or two, if there are no complications. You’ve been a quick heal so far, but until I know what it is you got poisoned with, you’re not in the clear.”

Sure enough, he could still feel the burn in his side. Definitely less obtrusive than his first night in that cell, but a burn nonetheless, and he had heartburn something awful.

McCree took it all in, the pain, the room, and the doctor, from the words she was saying to the way she grasped her pen.“I suppose I owe you one, then, Doc.”

She hummed, looking back at her clipboard. She had been so carefully avoiding his gaze, that when he jerked his wrist up to scratch his face, she looked more surprised to have made eye contact than by his actual movement.

Remembering his incapacitation, McCree opted to using his shoulder to relieve his itch, and he was sure it was probably a sight. The wince he knew she saw didn’t elicit any kind of matronly response. Rather, she stepped forward and took a glance at the bags being fed through an IV in his arm and adjusted some sort of setting on the machine before returning to her first position.

“Athena, please inform Commander Morrison that the patient is awake and interactive.” She said this, presumably, to the voice that he’d heard as soon as he was conscious. She turned to him yet again, a look of disdain painting her features. “If you’ll excuse me, I have two men with brain injuries to attend to.”

By the tone in her voice, those brain injuries had something to do with him.

If he were younger, those judging blue eyes might have shamed him, but Jesse McCree was far past shame.

The sound of her footsteps retreated behind the white panel once more, and Jesse, tired of the awkward angle his neck and back had been stretched, lie back down on the hospital bed.

Whatever they'd been treating him with made him sore and drowsy, and he'd just about fallen asleep before the voice, Athena, announced the arrival of one Strike Commander Jack Morrison. A mouthful, to say the least. Another “Thank you, Athena” could be heard from some distance to McCree’s right. Then, a door, and low voices from Dr. Ziegler and Morrison that were just out of earshot, though McCree could definitely decipher their tones, and though they did what they could to keep quiet, hushed, the unmistakable inflections of anger.

Moments later, and Jack Morrison himself was standing over him, blue eyes hardened and jaw set.

“Well, howdy there.”

Morrison’s eyes gave him a once-over, his general demeanor unimpressed.

“You’ve got quite the smirk for a man facing several lifetimes in prison.”

McCree’s confidence didn’t waver. If anything, it just made his smile wider. “I’ve always faced prison, it’s just a matter of when you get caught.”

Morrison hummed, contemplating. “Well,” he started, almost teasing. “Gotcha.”

At this, McCree’s smile faltered, his eyes squinting, searching for whatever angle this demanding Overwatch commander had, as though the lines and degrees would appear in thin air, as though McCree’s sharp eye could catch what others couldn’t. Maybe the pain creeping back into his body, up his neck, would show him what he normally wouldn’t.

“About that, by the way,” the Commander continued, “these few days you’ve been out have been quite hectic for us. We’ve been treating and transferring you kids so fast the media can’t keep up. It’s been quite the circus. Terrorists don’t get the same trial process as your run-of-the-mill gang, but I’m sure you’re well aware of that, and thr-”

“Sir, Gabriel Reyes is outside.”

Morrison looked up at nothing, partially rolling his eyes, partially to “address” the voice through the speakers. “Thank you, Athena.” His voice had a tone McCree couldn’t quite pin, though he guessed exasperation.

McCree was getting far too used to the hissing of the doors in the Overwatch building. What he wasn’t used to, what he didn’t think he could ever be used to, was the angry sound of Gabriel Reyes cursing under his breath in a mix of English and Spanish, and the rhythmic thudding of his boots on the tile that seemed to be perfectly in time with the throbbing McCree felt in his head and his stomach.

“Jack Morrison, you’d better get your happy ass out here before I tear my fucking foot through it,” he growled, just outside the sliding panel separating him from McCree’s sight. His words were apparently rhetorical, and he pushed himself through. Dr. Ziegler stood a few feet behind him in silent protest, her face a combination of anger, fear, and worry. Mostly, though, it was anger.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Reyes.”

“You’re one to talk, Morrison. I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen.”

“I’m not discussing this with you right now. I’m having a conversation with somebody else, and it doesn’t concern you.”  
Morrison elected to ignore Reyes, again turning to McCree, his face giving away no emotion, no hint as to the inner working of his mind. The only thing McCree could identify was the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, and a peculiar gleam in his eye, though McCree had to look hard to find even that.

“Jesse McCree, I am Overwatch Strike Commander Jack Morrison. You’ve been captured as part of a mass sting to shut down the terrorist cell localized in the American west, and you, along with the other men captured, face life in a maximum security prison for a long list of crimes, and if you have any illusions that you’ll manage to slip by, trust me -- we will make plenty of those charges stick. You will be tried, possibly unfairly, and you will be sent to prison. These are the facts.”

McCree could hear and process the speech, definitely, though he couldn’t help but notice the way Reyes stared at Morrison, and he knew that if looks could kill, Reyes would have Morrison flat on his back and pleading for mercy.

“Now, you may be young yet, but you’re not a child. You’re not as stupid as you look, either, and I’m not wasting any time explaining to you just what lies in store for you in a maximum security prison with fifty angry ex-brothers in the midst of even more dangerous criminals. I’m here to make you an offer, and you have until the next time I see you to answer.”

McCree hadn’t said more than a handful of words since he woke up, and for the first time in a long, long time, he didn’t know if he would be able to force out the words crawling up his throat.

“And what might that be?” he croaked. At this point, he didn’t really care if they could hear the first traces of fear laced in his voice. His gaze was tied between the two men before him, and he could feel the tickling pit of anxiety in his stomach, and for a moment, he though Morrison could actually see it writhing inside of him.

“You can go to prison, or you can join Overwatch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops sorry it took so long to upload this chapter it's getting harder to get to the ending :( everyone's comments have been greatly appreciated so far it means a lot that y'all like this story so much i hope to write a lot more in the near future.


	8. Wishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A miracle performed that night, I wasn't meant to die  
> The dead ones formed a barricade least six or seven high  
> And right behind it there was I, afraid but safe and sound  
> I cried and begged for mercy kneeling there upon the ground.

Join Overwatch.

That wouldn’t have ever been on Jesse McCree’s “when I grow up” list, not even when he was playing cops and robbers as a kid and the omnic crisis was stretching its conflicts across the farthest reaches of the globe. 

Morrison hadn’t even stuck around to relish in McCree’s shock. He just said “Join Overwatch, and keep your head down, and we won’t need to talk about your place amongst the Deadlock Gang’s ranks during a long, arduous trial,” patted McCree’s leg as if he were a sickly child, and swept Reyes out of the room. He’d only stuck around to call for Dr. Ziegler before he left, and McCree sat perplexed as her small frame took Morrison’s place.

She was still holding that damn clipboard.

She studied it a moment before turning to address McCree, squinting as though he’d done something that puzzled her. “Are you still in any pain?”

He choked out something incomprehensible before clearing his throat to try again. “Well, a bit, actually. I can’t rightly move too much at the moment.”

She hummed and moved to adjust his hospital gown for a better look, and his eyes shifted downwards. What was definitely too purple to be a bruise spread out over a large chunk of his abdomen, the darker black tendrils giving it a particularly terrifying look. He winced at the sight, which Dr. Ziegler seemed to notice.

“I don’t know what this is, but we’re doing tests. As important as it was to get your . . . your  _ gang _ off the streets, no one in Overwatch would have endorsed or okayed this. I hope your view of us is not based on tactics Overwatch would never use.”

McCree stared at her worried face, perplexed. This woman obviously held disdain for him, not that he’d fault her for it, and still she felt the need to apologize for the behavior of others, to protect him from paranoia, even. It was . . . unexpected, to say the least, enough so that he couldn’t find a response. He elected instead to watch as her practiced hands prodded at his wound.

It oozed.

Her fingers grazed over the entry wound and his entire self was wracked with searing pain, his limbs convulsing; his body reacting so suddenly he could only manage a shore, choking intake of breath. He could hear the panicked voice of the doctor, though he couldn’t make out a thing she was saying.

Despite his restraints, his limbs flailed out in a desperate attempt to curl his body inwards. The pain felt like a fire burning him from the inside out. A layer of sweat coated his body as if to reflect the heat he felt deep in his abdomen.

Jesse McCree had been close to death plenty of times these last few years, but nothing could have prepared him for this.

The doctor’s hands disappeared, and more took their place, and a new pair held his thighs down to the flimsy mattress of the hospital bed. Thousands more gripped at his blood vessels, his nerves, his organs, gripping tight and squeezing. 

He didn’t know how long he spent gasping for breath, drifting out of his own body and pulled painfully back in again as Dr. Ziegler and whoever else did anything and everything to figure out what was happening to his body. He heard her speaking to him occasionally, sometimes he just heard her speaking. Other times the ringing in his ears became so overwhelming it caused spots in his vision.

Eventually, Jesse just gave up as best he could, slipping in and out of consciousness as ice packs and heat pads were placed on his body as hot flashes and chills took over him.

Ziegler’s panicked voice cut through his daze at one point.

“Consent to treat . . . possible effects.”

“What?” he yelled, though he’d later learned she could barely make him out.

“I need your verbal consent to do this. You might not make it.”

Jesse couldn’t remember how he replied, or if he did at all, but the doctor’s face hardened and she quickly went to work, leading a later version of McCree to assume he said the correct thing to classify as consent. 

He never did find out exactly what he consented to, but when he woke up again, in considerably less pain and with Ziegler nowhere to be found, he didn’t really care. He couldn’t move his body, regardless of any restraints, and he could barely make out the shapes of anything near him, but the ungodly pain from earlier had dissipated to a slow burn, and Jesse McCree cried.

He cried until his eyesight returned, blurred only by the tears in his eyes, and the only convulsions that took over his body were sobs.

Jesse McCree cried right up until the Overwatch commanders found themselves in his hospital room again, to the protests of Angela Ziegler, and he heard the words leave his lips.

“I’ll do it. I’ll join Overwatch,” he forced. “I’ll do anything.”

And then, when he realized the impact of his words, Jesse McCree cried again.

He wished his mother was here with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not sure how i feel about this chapter but i had seven written and nine figured out completely. sorry for the long wait period. i was editing the other chapters quite a bit. final chapter will come soon.


	9. Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pardon I was granted, my sinful soul set free  
> No more to fear the angry waves upon life's stormy sea  
> Forgiven by the love of God, a love that will remain  
> I gave my life and soul the night the Saviour called my name…

Jesse McCree was not a superstitious man. Not anymore. In his younger years, he’d have kept packets of salt in his pockets like the rest of the Deadlock boys, or he’d go through strange rituals before missions that would cause a laugh riot with the rest of Blackwatch.

Now, he mostly just resigned himself to let fate decide.

Now, he was sitting at a bar in east fucking nowhere, his prosthetic clutching a glass that didn’t look like he’d been entirely cleaned in some time, chasing away regrets that weren’t his and waiting for ghosts.

He sat and waved his glass around in small circles, watching as the ice cubes clinked together and the condensation fell to the wooden bar.

Tonight’s work had been a bit tedious. He’d sat outside some swanky hotel for a number of hours before the banker or lawyer or some other corrupt, rich buffoon finally emerged from it’s shiny interior. He’d run from France, and there were a few organizations eager to see his return home.

No, tonight’s job wasn’t an issue for McCree.

It was the eager blond behind working the small newspaper kiosk outside the hotel that had looked his way a few too many times that had him reeling.

Fuck, he’d looked just like Morrison, the first few times.

Then again, he really didn’t look like Jack at all. Maybe the ghost of pre-SEP Jack. He was a scrawny blond with a jawline, and he looked far too anxious to be selling papers to high-end executives and the like. His eyes weren’t even blue, they were green.

The shock of it all just addled McCree’s rational thought, even though he looked like the kind of young man Reyes would have eaten for breakfast for his lack of a proper frame, and a ridiculously self-conscious way of holding himself.

He chuckled humorlessly at the thought. He’d spend a good amount of time butting heads with Reyes himself, though the two would spend many a night laughing together about it years later.

Not anymore, though. Not since the explosion. Before that, even, when McCree’d disappeared.

He’d change it if he could, though he wasn’t sure it would’ve even helped, even then.

He lifted the glass to his lips again, unsure of when it got refilled or how he hadn’t noticed it. He didn’t even remember setting the damn thing down.

Truth be told, he knew he looked a mess. His hat sat on the bar, frayed and worse for the wear. His cigar, much like his drink, passed back and forth between his lips and resting on the ashtray on the counter. If he looked at the reflective glass behind the liquor shelves, he could see bloodshot eyes in his warped reflection, and a fresh cut on his eyebrow that probably could have used stitches.

Through his alcohol-fazed haze, images flashed through his mind at a mile a minute. Cheap drinks and dirty glasses and women who didn’t _know_. Pre-mission mania, post-mission depression, and anniversaries that were rarely based in happy memories.

A band of comrades, friends, often brothers, dwindling down to three as the years dragged on.

Memories of the men who saved him, who he saved others together, came and went too quickly to chase away with cheap whiskey and oxygen deprivation.

But a man could sure as hell try.

Two knocks on the counter shifted his attention to the bartender, who seemed as tired as McCree did.

“Last call, dude. We close in fifteen.”

“One more, then, of the cheapest you got.” He managed. Jesse McCree was by no means unable to afford better liquor, and on a normal night he might have indulged himself in something a bit more top-shelf.

It wasn’t about the drink, though. It was about the night.

The bartender topped off Jesse McCree’s glass with a knowing nod, as though he _could_ know, and went to finish whatever closing routine he had.

McCree looked back up at the dirty reflection four feet in front of him, glass raised.

“Happy anniversary, McCree. Overwatch wouldn’t be the same without you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> damn im gonna miss this fic it took a whole month and some change to finish but it got done and that's really weird for me.
> 
> if you enjoyed and have some spare change, please consider donating to my ko-fi (link enclosed). im a poor lesbian who graduates in two weeks and needs to move out the day after. 
> 
> if u liked this, or there are any glaring mistakes (grammatical or otherwise) please feel free to comment i really like getting new ones it makes me feel like this is something i should keep doing and i like to see what kind of people gravitate to the stuff i write.
> 
> thanks to everyone who stuck to it to the end and a thank-you to anyone who's gonna see it now that it'll be marked as complete.
> 
> anyway i love mccree my cowboy boyfriend this isn't a sad fic i promise.
> 
> ko-fi link: https://ko-fi.com/O4O2AN4X  
> lgbt discord server: https://discord.gg/UHcJ9cQ


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